


when you kill the lights

by haipollai



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, Capfam OT4, M/M, Multi, Musician!Sam, Non-Chronological, Violence, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-24
Updated: 2014-10-24
Packaged: 2018-02-22 09:54:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2503619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haipollai/pseuds/haipollai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <b>1483</b>
</p>
<p>Steven Rogers is dying, he knows it. He has seen death often enough to feel it creeping up his spine. There is blood on his lips, and he coughs up more with each breath. He can hear people around him, those screaming and crying as their own life fades, the men moving among them some to offer prayer and the others to offer a quicker exit.</p>
<p>Steve stares up at the sky, the only noise he makes is his wet coughs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	when you kill the lights

**Author's Note:**

> another old fic that i finally finished  
> thank you to beardsley for betaing <3333

**1924**

Sam first meets - really truly meets - Steve and James at three in the morning when he realized he forgot his jacket back on stage and makes his way into the bar to grab it. They're dancing, feet barely making any noise as they seem to glide over the floor. There's no music but they move in sync.

Sam is captivated, for a second the fact that it's two white men doesn't even matter. They're beautiful, and both move which such surety, knowing where the other will be, knowing they'll be in sync.

One of them, the smaller one - Bucky, he'll later learn - spins to face him, his dark eyes locking in on Sam's. He immediately backpedals, the moment broken. His excuses are already on the tip of his tongue but the guy grins. His partner only spares Sam a glance before pulling away to get their jackets.

"Bucky Barnes." He sticks out a hand and politeness drives Sam to move before his mind catches up.

"Sam Wilson."

"You're the trumpet player, right?" Bucky continues as if it's nothing. "Fuck, you're amazing."

He smiles hesitantly, not sure what to expect. "Thanks. Just like getting up there and playing."

"Oh no, I've heard just getting up and playing, you've got something else."

**1923**

"We should buy it."

"What?" Steve looks up from his newspaper to follow Bucky's eyes to the building. "An apartment? We have one." Bucky shakes his head and Steve realizes he's looking specifically at the bottom floor. "A bar?" Steve tilts his head as he considers it. They've been floating around for awhile, ever since the war began. Steve leans a little bit into Bucky just thinking about it. The war had started while Bucky was in Chicago and Steve in Prague and there had been no crossing the torched and scarred landscape Europe was turned into. A place to settle and do something together would be good.

"We'll have to find out if they're willing to sell," Bucky adds.

"We can always find another if they're not."

Bucky carefully takes the newspaper from his hands and folds it up. Nothing between them and no distractions. "So you're willing?"

"Absolutely," he answers without hesitation.

Bucky moves into his space. Steve isn't sure what's socially appropriate anymore, but he's fairly sure this is crossing a line. Not that he moves away. "Steven Rogers. You are committing to something if we do this." He switches smoothly into French, his old dialect that would get him strange looks on the streets of Paris today.

"I'm committed to you," he answers in the same language, though it's more stilted on his tongue.

**1483**

Steven Rogers is dying, he knows it. He has seen death often enough to feel it creeping up his spine. There is blood on his lips, and he coughs up more with each breath. He can hear people around him, those screaming and crying as their own life fades, the men moving among them some to offer prayer and the others to offer a quicker exit.

Steve stares up at the sky, the only noise he makes is his wet coughs.

He doesn't even notice the man approach until his shadow falls over Steve's face.

"Hello, child." The man crouches down, careful of his fine clothes in the blood and muck of the battlefield. There is no insignia on his clothing, no indication who he fought for though by the looks of him he didn't fight at all. Steve feels something tighten in his chest in suspicion or maybe that's his injury steadily killing him.

"I-" He tries to speak but it dissolves into another coughing fit. He is dying and he cannot even give a last confession. Though he is not sure he has much to confess.

"There is strength in you." Fingers clothed in gloves touch his cheek. There is something lulling about the voice, but not in the same way as his mother's lullabies, which he only vaguely remembers. The man's voice makes him want to sit closer, to hear more. It makes him _want_. His suspicion fades, everything else seems to fade. "I can preserve your strength. I can preserve you, give you another chance with some nurturing and guidance."

With his voice flowing over Steve, he can't do anything but whisper yes.

Carefully, the man slips his arms underneath Steve and lifts him up like a rag. He pulls Steve into his lap, cradling him. "You will become divine." He keeps one arm around Steve and with the other takes the small dagger from Steve's belt. If it can even be called a dagger, it's a knife, once Steve used it to skin game before he found himself fighting for kings and dukes. The man presses the blade against his own neck until a small trickle of blood stains his skin.

The man presses Steve's mouth to the cut, his voice flowing smoothly over him again, telling him to drink, to let the power in, to not be scared.

He's scared at first, part of him fighting against this strange feeling but the first taste against his tongue is like undiluted wine. He feels it race through his veins, making his head swim and he can't stop. Doesn't want to stop.

**1605**

Steve thinks that listening to James' laugh is his favorite thing. It comes easier now than it did a few years ago. They have a small home in Istanbul, close to the docks so they blend in with the Italians who come for trade. It smells like fish and salt, it reminds Steve of what was once home. He said goodbye a long time ago.

"What is so funny?" he murmurs, not bothering to get out of bed.

"Nothing really. Why are you still in bed?"

"The view is wonderful from here." He runs an eye over James, dressed only in trousers at the moment. The sharp angles of his stomach and hips are caught in the moonlight, making pale skin look like it's glowing. James' smile becomes shy, though he has had years to become used to Steve's attentions. There are moments when he's proud and pleased, returning Steve's compliments with smirks and pointed looks, but other times he's shy, caught off guard.

"I want to go out tonight. Just for a walk, no business. Will you come?"

"Of course." He rolls onto his side to better watch as James unfolds himself from his perch at the window. He stretches slowly, knowing Steve is watching. "Are you hungry?" James is young and reckless and sometimes the small things slip past him and sometimes the lingering guilt of what they must do makes it easy to push the hunger aside.

He saunters to the bed, kneeling at the edge of it, pulling his pants tight over his crotch. "A little." He sucks on his lower lip though Steve isn't sure if it's a shy expression or a sexual one. "Want something else more."

"Oh?"

James touches his shoulder, gently nudging but Steve doesn't move, not until James actually pushes. They've been over this, James can't break him, Steve is older and stronger so he doesn't need to be scared. Not with him. "Steve." His voice is close to a whine.

"You won't break me," he assures. He hooks his fingers in the ties of James' trousers.

James lets out a breath and finally lowers himself down. His fingers touch Steve's chest, running a finger from his neck to his navel. "Last night-"

"He was human." He catches James' hand and brings it to his mouth, pressing a kiss to his fingertip and slowly sucking it into his mouth. He scrapes his fangs over his finger but is careful not to break skin.

"I wanted to- I didn't mean-"

Steve lets go of him to push him back to the bed. James doesn't give any resistance, letting Steve push him onto his back and grab his wrists to pin them down. "It's alright. You broke his wrist, but he will recover. He will."

"I should be more in control." James frowns but doesn't seem to be looking at him. "You have control."

"It took me a long time." He kisses Bucky's neck. "Sometimes I'm still worried I'll hurt someone. I could hurt you."

James laughs and suddenly moves, throwing Steve onto his back. The impact makes him gasp and let go of James. He immediately takes advantage, pinning Steve down in return. "You could try, old man."

"So are we doing this or are you going to be scared to touch me?" He arches slowly, pressing as close as possible to James. There's no real answer, instead James mouth presses to his, licking into his mouth. Steve frees one hand to get his hand under James' pants, squeezing his ass, drawing a low moan from James. He pulls him down so he can grind against Steve's thigh, with his trousers still have on. He can feel James' cock, already growing hard and his twitches in response, all of him aching for the younger man.

He tangles one hand in James' hair and yanks his head back and away from the kiss. For a second, they both freeze, the room full of nothing but the sound of their breathing.

"Steven." His full name rolls off of James' tongue going straight to Steve's cock.

He moves without thinking, letting instinct guide him up to James' neck. His fangs don't extend but he sinks his teeth in anyway, leaving behind a bruise that will last for days. James groans, arching further into Steve's mouth.

 

**1816**

Steve feels each breath rasp from his lungs, thick and wet with more blood than he can spare. It's familiar and for a second he forgets, he forgets where he is.

"Steve?" James whispers, his voice sounding weak and far away. Steve's eyes crack open though and he manages a smile because James needs that.

"Sorry," he whispers. "Forgot- forgot he-" He coughs and blood spills over his lips. He's not healing. Steve knows he should be more worried but everything is so hazy he can't make himself focus. His head is lifted and placed on Bucky's knee. The sound of his shirt ripping, or at least what remains of it, reaches his ears, exposing the injury. Steve can't make himself look so focuses instead on James. It's not much better, his panic is written clearly on his face. "Sorry," he says again.

"No, I'm gonna- you can't die, Steve. You can't leave me."

Steve smiles sadly and closes his eyes. There's pressure on his chest and on his lips, he can barely tighten his jaw enough to feed, but he feels blood leak into his mouth. Heady and strong, like undiluted wine. If he was any stronger he might be sick, instead he only slips to a battlefield where he had no choice. It's easier that way.

When he opens his eyes again it's to a dark room. The curtains and shutters are all pulled tight, he thinks it must be the middle of the day to warrant such concern. It's the only time the sun bothers him anymore but he's never felt so weak before. The bed is still beside him but he can feel the press of an arm to his side. Steve closes his eyes and drifts off again, hoping the arm is James but too weak to check.

It doesn't feel like any time has passed when he opens his eyes again. The shutters are still closed but the arm has moved, a hand rests possessively on his chest.

"James." He turns his head away from the window to look up at him. His pale skin seems to glow even in the dark room. "You saved me?"

"You fought it, but I wasn't letting you go." He sets his jaw, ready for the argument.

"Thank you." He takes James' hand in his and presses a kiss to his palm. There's an old scar there that Steve has always been fascinated with, as a child James had grabbed a pot that was still hot, leaving his skin warped and scarred.

"Will you tell me what happened?"

"I don't know."

"Steve-"

"I don't," he snaps and immediately regrets it. James doesn't deserve his anger. This is Steve's own fault. But he doesn't want to think about it. About how he ended up in that alley, with most of his blood on the ground around him. He remembers something catching his attention, drawing him in and then- "I don't remember."

James frowns at him, confusion written across his face. "But how can you not remember?"

"I need to feed," he mumbles, pulling away from Bucky before he can see the panic in Steve's face. He's not fast enough though and James catches his wrist tightly. If he wanted he could break his grip, but he stays still. "Compulsion," he finally answers without looking at James. Simply saying the word out loud makes him feel sick, admitting that someone exerted control over him. Took away his own free will.

"Who has that kind of strength?"

He finally looks at James. Just looks to remind himself what he has to hold onto. "My maker."

**1483**

He's led down a hall by a firm hand on his shoulder. The man himself stands behind Steven, as if Steven might cut and run if he lets go or looks away. As if he has anywhere left to go. He doesn't even know where he is. His world has become a dark house that always feels faintly damp. His room has no windows and he knows why even as his mind skips over the word every time he tries to think it.

He doesn't even know how much time has passed.

The man calls himself Sir Smith, but his accent is something continental. Steven never traveled enough to be able to place it. He comes into Steven's room, sometimes he takes Steven out with him, he tells him stories of great deeds and great men, or he trains Steve with a sword.

The worst nights, the ones Steven craves as much as he hates, are the ones where he comes to Steven's room and presses a knife to his own wrist for Steven to feed from.

He wants to throw it up even as his body takes in more of his thickly sweet blood. Each time he is back on the battlefield, feeling himself die before the strange drunkenness seems to carry him away. Afterwards he can do nothing but lie on his bed, limbs too heavy to move, head swimming each time he lifts it.

"You must get strong," Smith says with an almost paternal pat to his head. "You will get strong."

Steven hates him.

He doesn't know where they're going now, this is an area of the house he has never been in and the hallway finally ends at a door. He opens it without question, knowing he has no other option. Inside is a young man, not even a man. He prostrates himself on the ground when they enter. It has been days since Smith has offered Steve his wrist and he feels it now, a pounding in his skull that grows steadily louder.

"This is your lesson for tonight," Smith says, voice calm as he pushes Steve completely into the room. "Humans are useful for many things. Those who want to eradicate them completely or reduce them to nothing more than food are stupid and shortsighted. We need humans to live. We can feed from other animals, but the nutrition is never the same. So I give this one to you to feed."

He pushes Steve forward and away from him. The young man's shirt is already gone and he holds his head at an angle so his throat is bare and exposed. The pounding in Steve's head is louder, too loud.

He has killed before, his father showed him how to hunt. A sword was put into his hand so he could go to war. But the idea of causing such a brutal death terrifies him even as his fangs extend. Feeding was easier when Smith pressed his wrist to Steven's lips and gave him no choice, now there is no one else to lay blame on.

Steven drops to his knees, eyes still fixed on the man's neck. If there are any other noises in the room they're drowned out by the ceaseless pounding.

_Thump_

_Thump_

_Th-_

 

**1572**

The young man has a nasty smirk. Steve is infatuated. On his own he has learned to not be ashamed of his pleasures, life is too awful and he will not be any kind of slave again. The young man kisses with need that matches Steve's own and he grabs at Steve with a desperation born from a short hard life.

Steve takes his hands and makes him slow down. He finds that the man is ticklish. That underneath a well tailored shirt he is lean and hard.

For a night they love without questions or names. The young man laughs easily and smiles when he moans as Steve kisses his chest and stomach and thighs. The smile disappears when he finally enters him with well oiled fingers.

The next day Steve watches Paris simmer and finally erupt. The young man is already gone, Steve wonders what side if this fight he's on if he is either side.

The lingering lights of fires caused by the riots seem even brighter against the night sky. More destructive. Steve knows he needs to get out of Paris, this will not end easily and he would rather be gone but for a moment longer he watches the flames.

The knocking on his door surprises him, but he's also not surprised. His neighbors look on him with suspicion, they do not like that they only see him out as the sun sets and what better excuse to come after him then the whole city going mad.

He grabs his sword as he makes his way to the door. He will kill to defend himself if he must.

Except there is no angry mob on the other side of his door. There is only the young man leaning heavily on the door jamb, one hand clutching at his stomach.

"I'm sorry," he gasps. There's blood on his breath, his own from damaged lungs, Steve can smell it. "No where else- too far-" His breath comes in rough gasps.

He's dying.

Steve should close the door, he needs to get out of Paris, not create new ties. But he slips an arm around the young man's waist and guides him into the study. It's Steve's favorite room in the place, warm woods and shelves covered with books. The man collapses onto a couch, eyes fluttering but not closing. Steve busies himself, pouring them both a glass of wine before sitting down beside him.

"My name is James. You should know that if you are going to watch me die." His hands shake when he takes the glass

"Steven."

"You're English?" He doesn't seem to expect Steve to even try and save him, just sits there with his blood seeping through his fingers. "Your French seemed very good the other night."

"Not exactly, but you were drinking last night," he laughs. The smell of blood is dangerous, he can feel his body react at the smell, craving it but he doesn't move away from James either. He won't let him die alone.

James smiles in amusement at him. It suddenly hits Steve hard how much he doesn’t want this man, barely more than a boy, to die. “I can forgive you for being English. I was going to come back anyway, if not tonight than maybe tomorrow. My commander wanted us in the streets.” He closes his eyes and Steve wonders if this is it. “Sent us to kill families. I thought- I thought I could. They’re sinners.”

“Killing is never that easy,” Steve says softly.

His eyes open again but the look in them is unreadable. “I think I could love you, my handsome not exactly English gentleman.”

Steve carefully takes his hand, the one not holding his guts in, and presses a kiss to his palm. His fangs press against his gums and it would be so easy. “What if- what if you didn’t have to die?”

“That would be a miracle. And how would you accomplish this?”

He runs his tongue over his fangs, and drawing courage from somewhere he opens his mouth so James can see. “It would be no miracle,” he says softly.

James eyes grow wide and he starts to lean forward, but the pain in his stomach makes him drop back. “Vampire? You don’t seem evil enough.”

“It is not good or evil. No devil or God.” He looks down at James’ hand, still held in his own. His fingers find his pulse, so weak now. Underneath the blood he thinks he smells fear but James doesn’t move away.

“Would you stay with me?”

“While you die?”

“While I live.” He turns his hand so the inside of his wrist faces up towards Steve, where the skin is weak and fragile. Steve lifts James’ arm the rest of the way to his lips.

**1924**

The place has mostly emptied out. Steve and Bucky are at the bar where they usually are by this time of night. Sam knows they have other businesses around, and he's pretty sure most of it is shady but he's not one to question. He's grateful they let him play and they pay well. He finishes packing up his trumpet and makes his way over to them, Steve already setting a gin and tonic on the bar as he sits down.

"Thanks."

"My pleasure," Steve smiles and Sam has to try not to think too hard about that smile. It's dangerous because he knows Steve and Bucky have a thing even if they've never said in so many words. It's dangerous because he can never know how far this kindness of theirs will really go if pressed. "Everything's been working well?"

"You mean with the music, it's been a dream, si-Steve." Except you have to wake up from dreams and Sam is just waiting to wake up from this one.

It comes sooner than he expects when the door opens.

**1484**

He stumbles out of the house, expecting dogs and guards to come after him, but once he's running the world flies past him. It's exhilarating, he's never had a chance to run since the battlefield. Since he became this creature who fears sunlight and survives off of blood. He thinks he lost himself in that house, with nothing but his darkened room and the seemingly endless humans given to him to feed. Smith's voice echoing constantly in his ears, telling him he would be stronger and better, he would be a soldier.

Steve's feet tangle up and he sprawls forward, crashing into a wall headfirst. He hopes that he's broken his neck, that he can lay here and die like he should have on the battlefield. He doesn't even know how long he was in there, if it's been weeks or years or even longer.

Time he shouldn't have had.

"Steven. Really, Steven," Smith's familiar voice crawls up his spine. He sighs as if disappointed and maybe he is, but Steve knows no one really matters to Smith but his own agenda. He could always find another. "How childish running away like this."

"I won't be your slave," he whispers. From somewhere he draws enough strength to push himself up onto his knees. His back isn't broken like he had hoped and maybe it's better this way. Smith would have healed him.

"You can't run from me." Smith stands over him, hands clasped behind his back. Steve can see him clearly even though it's a new moon. There's no one around to be a witness. Just two monsters in the dark.

"Then I won't run." He gets to his feet, shaky at first but just standing up for himself brings back his strength. "But I won't be your slave."

Smith looks him over for a second and then throws his head back and laughs. "You can't tell me no. You're mine." He moves, almost too fast for Steve to see but he manages to guess where Smith will turn back up and manages to barely sidestep him before his hand can close on Steve's throat. He still gets a grip on Steve's arm and throws him against the wall. Steve feels the stone crack under him and for a second he can't breath, all the air knocked out of his lungs.

Smith is immediately on him and this time Steve can't move in time. His hand his cold on Steve's skin, sending a deep chill through him.

His eyes are red and Steve finds the ability to struggle leaving him. Smith is talking but the words flow over and through him, telling him to relax. Telling him to stop. No sense in fighting.

No sense.

His eyes close and something still fighting deep down inside of him flares back up, making his whole body feel like it's burning with the effort of fighting off Smith for at least a short while. He raises his knee, catching him by surprise and it's enough for Steve to get out of his grasp. There is nowhere to go but he runs, he can hear Smith behind him, screaming and laughing. It's a horrible sound that sets his teeth on edge.

_You can stop_. The whisper catches him by surprise, almost sends him crashing again but he manages to stay on his feet. He's becoming more used to his body.

He's reached a road without realizing it. At first he doesn't think anyone's there, everyone tucked in bed but he hears the horse before he sees it. There's a dip in the road that was lost in the darkness and a moment later a woman appears, cloaked but obviously well dressed. Steve prepares to run again but he gets the strange feeling she's looking right at him.

"You can stop," she says. Her voice sounding exactly like the one he had heard in his head. "You will be safe."

"Safe?" He almost laughs but then he hears something, a harsh wind maybe except he knows it's Smith. He can't escape. The woman kicks at her horse but it's not fast enough. It's not possible for a horse to move as fast as Steve knows he and Smith do but he doesn't know how to tell her that.

It's too late, Smith's claws are around his neck, pulling him away from the woman from her promise of safety.

Except he isn't.

Steve stands there, unhindered by anyone and when he turns he sees Smith standing a few paces away, but his eyes are fixed on the woman. "Another Carter?" he sneers, but the venom is missing in his voice. For the first time, Steve hears fear in Smith's voice.

"Schmidt. I grant this man safety. You are trespassing." Carter throws back her cloak and underneath she's dressed as a man with a sword strapped to her hip. Her blonde hair is tied back in an elegant braid. Steve has no doubt she's as lethal as she looks.

"He's mine."

"He's his own." Carter leaps from her horse and Steve realizes she's one of them, whatever Smith or Schmidt is. "You. Are. Trespassing." Schmidt growls curses at them but turns and leaves, disappearing back into the night. Steve is free of him, the sudden realization brings him to his knees and he can feel the fine tremor in his hands. A darkness falls over him and he looks up to see the woman, her face softens slightly as she looks down at him. "What is your name?"

"Steven. Steven Rogers."

"Sharon Carter." She holds out a hand and helps him to his feet. "Do you know how to ride?"

"Not very well." He swallows hard, looking now at the horse, wondering if he can just run instead. Run far and fast, maybe cross the channel to the continent. He has heard grand stories, maybe he can go to Rome and beg forgiveness there for the blood that hasn't passed his lips.

Sharon seems to sense what he's thinking and lets go of him. "You can leave if you want. You can come with me and still leave. Tomorrow, in a week, a month. Whenever you are ready. But if you leave now, Schmidt will find you and you will not be ready."

The threat of Schmidt drags him away from fairy stories. "Then I guess we ride." He sets his shoulders, trying to push back his fear. He is stronger than fear, his life would have ended long ago if he had given into it but that house had eaten at him, stolen who he was. "How far?"

"Five minutes." She gets into the saddle and easily pulls Steve up behind her. "We are on the edge of my family's land, you're lucky you ran this way. Not many would extend you help against someone like him."

"I don't believe in luck."

She laughs as she spurs the horse into a gallop and he has to cling to her or fall off. "I think I will like you, Steven Rogers!" she yells over the wind.

**1924**

"Sharon!" Steve leaps over the countertop towards the woman, easily lifting her and spinning her around. She lets out a surprised laugh, holding onto Steve's shoulders as if might let go and drop her.

"It has been so long." She has a faint hint of an accent, similar to Steve and Bucky's but not quite. Sam would guess southern but he has a feeling that's not right. "What was it?"

"World's Fair probably," Bucky answers. "Chicago."

Sam looks hard at him because there's no way Bucky would have been alive for the Chicago World's Fair. Even adding a few years to what he looked like, he couldn't have been born before 1900, maybe 1895.

"Yes!" Sharon says happily, pulling away from Steve to give Bucky a hug. Sam doesn't know what she says to him next, it sounds almost like French but can't understand a word of it. He had a friend who decided to go see Paris, to play at a salon there and made Sam learn along with him. Bucky obviously understands her, because he responds in the same strange dialect.

Sam looks over at Steve, wondering if he's just as confused but he's locking up and dimming the lights. Sam gets the feeling it might be his time to slip out.

He starts to stand but a hand gently keeps him in his chair. He stares up at Steve in surprise, not sure when he moved. Sam certainly never saw him. "Please stay," he says softly. "You're a friend."

"Feel like you're about to drop some awful news on me."

"It's not awful." He frowns. "I guess I shouldn't have locked the door, that does seem ominous."

"There's no need to worry, Sam," Bucky says, lounging back at the bar, Sharon in the seat beside him. "Steve is practically a vegetarian." Steve frowns sternly at him as he makes his way back behind the bar to finish cleaning things up. "Well, you are. And old enough you only feed like once a month."

Sharon tsks next to him. "Even if you can go sparingly doesn't mean you should. It's not healthy. How _do_ you have such a well stocked bar with prohibition and all?"

"Secret," Steve grins and pours out a finger of whiskey and passes it to her. "And I am healthy."

Sharon leans forward and then looks at Sam and then back at Steve. "This isn't-"

"No!" Steve looks horrified at whatever she implies and Bucky's shoulder shake in silent laughter. He's biting on his lower lip hard enough that Sam thinks he sees blood.

Sam clears his throat again to get their attention. "If I may be so bold, what the hell is going on?"

Sharon grins at him and as he watches, her canines extend.

**1816**

James sits stiffly on the couch, not looking at Steve, not really looking at anything. Steve resists fidgeting with his shirtsleeves. He's dressed down, no jacket, no tie, just shirt and trousers. His skin still itches around his neck, he's weak, should feed to replace what he lost but can't make himself yet.

He should probably sit down as well but he's waiting for James' reaction.

"You never talk about him," James finally says. "Your maker."

"He wasn't a good man," Steve says.

"Sharon knew him, I remember she mentioned it once." He turns to look at him. "Sometimes. I'm not sure-" He bites down on his lower lip and looks away again. "We've known each other a long time, Steve."

"Two hundred fifty years, give or take."

"Sit down before you fall over," Bucky sighs, curling his feet up underneath him so there's room for Steve. He collapses almost gratefully into the seat, once he's off his feet feeling how weak he really was. "You need to feed." Steve nods, he knows and he will. He has no death wish but he needs time before he tastes blood again. Centuries have not made him used to the taste and it's still too sweet and too rich and too bitter.

"He wanted to make me a pet. When I finally escaped, I ran all the way and stumbled upon the Carters’ land by accident. They took me in, helped me heal." James moves closer as he talks, slips an arm around Steve's shoulders and tugs him in. Even though Steve is the bigger of them, he fits against James' side.

"When you left after Istanbul-"

"It was because of him. He was close. I wouldn't let him have you." He grips James' pants leg, not caring that he's running the carefully pressed lines. "You were too young."

"And now he's here. You lied to me."

"I'm not running. Not alone, at least." He lifts his head and presses a kiss to Bucky's cheek. "I'm sorry."

"You said you were taking care of some business Steve and I found you almost dead in an alley." James trembles from the tension in his back. Steve sits back, knowing there's nothing he can do until the worst passes. James doesn't let go of him though, as if he's the one who was attacked and needs reassurance he's safe. "You could have bled out there and I might never have known."

"You might have. I don't know what happens when a sire dies."

James glares at him, not assured.

"I knew you'd find me. And you did."

James deflates and melts against Steve. "Don't do it again."

Steve kisses the top of his head. He lets himself relax with James' weight against him, feeling like he's finally secure, the bitter taste of James' own blood fading from his tongue. "Won't. We'll do it together." He can feel James nod but they fall into silence, nothing but the sound of their breathing. The pull of exhaustion and starvation is stronger now with nothing to distract him, he can't avoid feeding for much longer.

James presses a kiss to where his heart once beat before pulling back and getting to his feet. "Come on, we should change and go out. We can go to the docks. It will be easier." He helps Steve to his feet, supporting his weight easily. "Will you ever tell me what happened in Istanbul?"

"There's no story. I had to leave quickly before he ever learned about you. So I did." He still hates himself for running, but he had no way of killing Schmidt, knew of no way the confrontation would end in anything but James' throat ripped out.

"But-"

"Neither of us could kill him. I put a bullet in his eye once and he still walks free."

James frowns at him, clearly not pleased but he finally lets it drop and they help each other change into fresh clothes before heading out into the night, looking like nothing more than two more dandies out to carouse and drink.

**1924**

Sam pushes back from his stool, almost knocking himself over along with it. Sharon's fangs disappear as if they weren't there at all. Bucky starts to reach out but stops himself. Instead he picks the stool up and sets it back where it was before, a clear invitation for Sam. He's not ready to take it just yet.

"Sorry, I believe this is my fault," Sharon says. "I have a habit of bursting in. It drives my aunt batty and she has had a very long time to come to terms with it."

"We're not going to hurt you, Sam," Steve says. "And maybe it's better you know. Secrets tend to…" He looks at Bucky and there's clearly a story there. It dawns on Sam how many stories the two of them must have, how _old_ they could be.

"Why don't you put it into words for me," Sam says, looking between Bucky and Steve.

"We're vampires," Bucky says bluntly. "Sharon's the oldest, than Steve and Steve turned me in 1572." He ticks off his fingers as he talks, as if going down a mental checklist. "We're not going to feed off of you. We don't feed very often and Steve would live off of bad booze if he could anyway."

"Tastes better than blood," Steve grumbles.

"Vampires are real?" Sam asks, not sure he can even get over that piece of information. He believes in ghosts, can't help but believe after what he saw in the war. All that pain has got to leave something behind.

"Dracula isn't," Sharon says, earning a sharp look from Steve. "Which isn't helpful but relevant."

"Yes. We're real," Steve says to Sam. "And we were going to tell you at some point."

Sam looks back and forth between them, they're just Steve and Bucky, the two men who let him play, who dance when everyone else is gone. Sometimes Sam plays for just them, watches them move and sway and thinking back, there was always something unnatural in how they moved. Too graceful.

He makes his way back to his stool. "I suspect I will need something stronger for this conversation."

Steve smiles in relief and reaches behind the bar.

**1572**

Steve lightly traces the curve of James' face, he's still asleep, his body still adjusting. He'll be hungry when he wakes and Steve will let him decide how he wants to feed. For now he wants to touch, his fingers moves down to his lips.

"Good morning. Evening?" James eyes blink open, turning slightly into Steve's hand.

"Evening. The sun is just setting." He kisses James, smiling when James kisses back.

"I feel amazing." James still sounds mostly asleep. "So amazing. This is…" He rolls onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. "I could- I could run forever. Or-" He cuts himself off with a small groan and twists back into Steve. "What is…is that hunger?"

"Probably." He curls his fingers in James' hair, trying not to think that this is going to be the last time but he can't help it. James has to face what he is now, and Steve doesn't know if he will. He would understand if anyone couldn't once the fear of death was gone. "We can sit here a little longer."

James buries his head under Steve's chin, he can hear each slow breath, James taking in everything around them through sharper senses. They don't technically need to breathe but it's a useful habit to maintain, especially if they live in a city. Steve rests his hand on James' back, feeling the rise and fall. "You're protecting me," James says, but he doesn't pull away.

"I-"

"You are." Now he does sit back to look Steve in the eye. "I am no stranger to killing or death."

Steve touches his fingertips to James' neck where he remembers biting even though not even a scar remains. His fingers drift down to James' stomach, last night reduced to a sucking wound, he took blood from there too. Steve's own cheeks are tinted pink, feeding is little more than gorging, he will be satisfied for weeks if not longer. "It is different, brutal. You feel another dying under your touch."

"You have done it."

"As little as possible."

James lips brush over his. "I am not ready to die."

Steve lifts up into the kiss. "Doesn't mean living will be easy." James frowns so he cuts him off with another kiss. "There are many dying in the city tonight, it will make the first time easier." It will be easy, easier, than it could be. They will go out later, disappear into the mobs and Steve will show him what he has truly agreed to. He doesn't want to think about it.

"Where do you usually feed?" James asks, sitting up again. He was already pale, a mark of aristocracy, but with no fresh blood he looks almost marble.

"The docks, no one notices a missing sailor, or a runaway." He gets up so he's no longer looking up at James but instead straight on. "People are willfully blind to many things and they care less about many more."

James takes his hand and presses a kiss to his palm, and then his wrist, "Do you really think you slip so easily into the background?"

"I find ways to make people keep their distance." He pulls James in. Pressed chest to chest he can feel his cooling skin, the lingering warmth of humanity. "'You are an exception."

"Hopefully one you don't regret."

"Not yet." He grins to keep the words from hurting. "Come, we will get dressed and you'll decide if the price for this is worth it."

**1924**

"So alcohol works on vampires?" Sam grins, feeling loose and at ease, they've moved to Steve and Bucky's apartment over the bar. It's probably past sunrise now but the curtains are drawn tight and there's music playing so Sam sees no need to actually check. Making a career out of playing trumpet has made him more of a night owl anyway.

"Still have blood in our veins," Steve answers. They sit side by side on the couch, Steve's body cool wherever they touch, both of them stripped down to shirtsleeves. Bucky and Sharon dance slowly in the middle of the room, moving together with an unnatural ease that he can't drag his eyes away from.

"You got a special family here," Sam murmurs.

"You're a part of it."

"Me? Only known you a few months, apparently you've all known each other for centuries."

Steve laughs and suddenly he's swinging a leg over and straddling his lap. His blue eyes light up and very slowly he ducks his head to kiss Sam. Dry and chaste but his arms slip around Sam's neck and stay there when he pulls back. "The one thing I've learned is, first impressions really are damn important."

"That is not very gentlemanly of you," Bucky says from behind them and Steve twists around but doesn't get off of Sam.

"You are the only one here born to an aristocratic family," Steve says. Sam's fingers dig into Steve's hips, not sure if he wants to push him away or pull him closer. The love between Steve and Bucky can't be missed and Sam doesn't- pretty white boys don't kiss people like Sam.

"I had hoped some of my upbringing would rub off on you." Bucky folds himself neatly onto the couch next to Sam and Sharon leans over the back. There's a feeling of being surrounded and Sam is sharply aware that all three are predators. That all three need blood and here he is,a lamb to the slaughter.

"Mmm, that's not all that rubs between you two," Sharon laughs. "Come along, boys, you should put on a show for Sam."

Steve's eyes meet his, trying to judge his reaction. He leans down to kiss him again and this time Sam is ready for it, his lips part at the slow slide of Steve's tongue. He's playing with fire but the fear twists into sharp arousal and he's never been accused of living life smart. Steve slides away without warning and Sam suddenly feels cold but Bucky presses against his side, his lips dragging over the line of his jaw.

"Bedroom."

He's not sure who says it, but someone takes his hands and pulls him up. And it's Sharon next, walking backwards in front of him, her hands working on the buttons of his shirt. In the bedroom, she steps back to slip out of her clothes and she's lithe and pale like she stepped from a photograph. Bucky climbs onto the bed with her, down to his shirt sleeves but he's focused on her, on the smooth planes of her stomach and the v of her thighs. Steve comes up to Sam, one arm around his shoulders to pull him back against him, the other opening his pants.

"This is-" Sam starts but his voice catches on a moan at the first cool press of fingers to his cock.

"I know."

"Fuck, Steve."

Steve laughs and kisses his neck. "Wanna fuck you."

Sam groans. This still doesn't feel real, this is not something that happens to him. The threat of teeth sinking into his flesh is still there but this is also Steve and Bucky who dance to his trumpet after closing. He steps away from Steve and slips his suspenders off his shoulders to get out of his pants. Sharon's eyes follow each movement from the bed and he doesn't need to turn to know Steve must be staring as well. "Hurry up before I get bored of standing around."

Steve's immediately back on him, his clothes gone and nothing but hard skin against Sam's back. He's feeling the buzz of the alcohol and his heartbeat is like a drum sounding out time. Sam's always appreciated good music.

**1915**

The battle is over and there is nothing left but the hollow sounds of the dying filling the sharp winter air. Steve stands in the middle of the field, surrounded by barbed wire and corpses. There is blood on his hands from clawing through the muck and mire. Smith sees him from where he's feasting on the poor souls abandoned by their own. He stands slowly.

"Not so high and mighty now?" he speaks in Old English. A tongue as dead as those around them.

"Maybe not." Steve says. Smith thinks he's here for the blood just as he himself is. Steve palms the bayonet blade in one hand.

"I forgive you for how you tried to kill me and betray me."

"I am not here for that."

Smith laughs, as cold as the air and throws his arms out wide. "Oh? Here just to dine? What a good time war is, a feast to be had. These mortals don't know what they're wasting here." He kicks at the soldier he had drained and while he's distracted, Steve moves, there is no moon, nothing to catch the shine of the blade as he drives it up into Smith's heart. It won't kill him.

But the cut across his throat will, neatly severing the head from the body. There is blood on Steve's hands and he can feel it where it spattered onto his face. He brusquely wipes it away, praying none had landed in his mouth. He will no longer be tainted by the man and his sins. The bitter memory of his blood forced past Steve's lips centuries ago will never fade and he refuses to relive it.

The battle is over and his shoulders sag. He had come here on the rumor that Smith was feeding on the soldiers, cloaked in mud and mustard gas. He never expected this to end so easily.

The blade falls to the ground and he buries it before he drops to his knees and dry retches, there's nothing in his stomach to come up, there hasn't been for a very long time. Steve stares at Smith's body, not sure who really won except he squeezes his eyes shut and thinks of Bucky. It has been ten years, Bucky wanted to stay in America and Steve hadn't been ready just yet. They had promised, in ten years on the Carter estate. The only place they both knew would always be standing for them.

He had promised Bucky they would do this together, that Steve would not risk simply disappearing on him but the chance had come and Bucky was too far away. There's a letter in the post, though he doesn't know if the sea will eat it before it arrives.

He forces himself to his feet, he needs Bucky back. He needs Sharon. He needs- he forces his legs into a run, until there is nothing but the burn of his muscles.

**1924**

Steve stretches slowly when he wakes, the smell of sex still sits heavy in the air even though the soreness has already faded. All four are still in bed and he sees no reason to move. He and Bucky came to New York for a fresh start. This is not what he ever expected but he can't find much fault in it.

Sam is next to him and stirs at Steve's movements. His lips are still red, the only one left with marks from the night before. Steve can't resist touching his fingers to his lips, feeling the warmth of bruised skin.

"I was gonna ask if you want me out," Sam whispers. His tongue darts out over Steve's lips. "But I guess the answer's no." Steve can see Bucky watching them from the corner of his eyes, but he doesn't look away from Sam.

"Please stay," Steve murmurs.

-

Sam plays on the small stage after they've closed for the night and Bucky and Steve dance slowly in front of him. Steve feels like this is finally a new beginning.


End file.
